Chapter 3

God grant to us the strength of men, The patience of the brave; The wisdom to be silent, when The days with doubt are grave. When dangers come, as come they must, Throughout the trying hours Let us continue still to trust That triumph shall be ours.

We have foresworn our days of ease To battle for the right, To venture over troubled seas Oppression's wrongs to fight. And we have pledged ourselves to grief, And bitter hurt and pain, Then must we cling to this belief: We suffer not in vain.

God grant to us the strength of men, God help us to be true Until that glorious morning when The world shall smile anew. We shall be tested sore and tried, And flayed by many fears, Yet let us in this faith abide, That right shall rule the years.

Sympathy

One came to the house with a pretty speech: "It's all for the best," said he, And I know that he sought my heart to reach, And I know that he grieved with me.

But I was too full of my sorrow then To list to his words or care; Though I've tried I cannot recall again The comfort he gave me there.

But another came, and his lips were dumb As he grasped me by the hand, And he stammered: "Old man, I had to come, Oh, I hope you'll understand."

And ever since then I have felt his hand Clasped tightly in my own, And to-day his silence I understand-- My sorrowing he had known.

Hate

They say we must not hate, nor fight in hate. I've thought it over many a solemn hour, And cannot mildly view the man or state That has no thought, save only to be great; I cannot love the creature drunk with power. I hate the hand that slaughters babes at sea, I hate that will that orders wives to die. And there is something rises up in me When brutes run wild in crime and lechery That soft adjustments will not satisfy.

Men seldom fight the things they do not hate; A vice grows strong on mildly tempered scorn; Rank thrives the weed the gardeners tolerate; You cannot stroke the snake that lies in wait, And change his nature with to-morrow's morn. If roses are to bloom, the weeds must go; Vice be dethroned if virtue is to reign; Honor and shame together cannot grow, Sin either conquers or we lay it low, Wrong must be hated if the truth remain.

I hold that we must fight this war in hate-- In bitter hate of blood in fury spilled; Of children, bending over book and slate, Slaughtered to make a Prussian despot great; In hate of mothers pitilessly killed. In hate of liars plotting wars for gain; In hate of crimes too black for printed page; In hate of wrongs that mark the tyrant's reign-- And crush forever all within his train. Such hate shall be the glory of our age.

General Pershing

He isn't long on speeches. At the banquet table, he Could name a dozen places where he would much rather be. He's not one for fuss and feathers or for marching in review, But he's busy every minute when he's got a job to do. And you'll find him in the open, fighting hard and fighting square For the glory of his country when his boys get over there.

He has listened to the cheering of the splendid folks of France, And he knows that he's the leader of America's advance, And he knows his task is mighty and that words will not avail, So he's standing to his duty, for he isn't there to fail. And you'll find him cool and steady when the guns begin to flare, And he'll talk in deeds of glory when his boys get over there.

He has gone to face the fury of the Prussian hordes that sweep O'er the fertile fields of Freedom, where the forms of heroes sleep, And it seems no time for talking or for laughter or for cheers, With the wounded all about him and their moaning in his ears. He is waiting for to-morrow, waiting there to do his share, And he'll strike a blow for freedom when his boys get over there.

The Better Thing

It is better to die for the flag, For its red and its white and its blue, Than to hang back and shirk and to lag And let the flag sink out of view. It is better to give up this life In the heat and the thick of the strife Than to live out your days 'neath a sky, Where Old Glory shall never more fly.

The peace that we long for will be Far worse than the war that we dread If never again we're to see The blue, and the white and the red Wind-tossed and sun-kissed in the skies. If ever the Stars and Stripes dies Or loses its lustre and pride, We shall wish in our souls we had died.

It is better by far that we die Than that flag shall pass out of the world; If ever it ceases to fly, If ever it's hauled down and furled, Dishonor shall stamp us with shame And freedom be naught but a name, And the few years of dearly-bought breath Will be filled with worse horrors than death.

To a Lady Knitting

Little woman, hourly sitting, Something for a soldier knitting, What in fancy can you see? Many pictures come to me Through the stitch that now you're making: I behold a bullet breaking; I can see some soldier lying In that garment slowly dying, And that very bit of thread In your fingers, turns to red. Gray to-day; perhaps to-morrow Crimsoned by the blood of sorrow.

It may be some hero daring Shall that very thing be wearing When he ventures forth to give Life that other men may live. He may braver wield the saber As a tribute to your labor, And for that, which you have knitted, Better for his task be fitted. When the thread has left your finger, Something of yourself may linger, Something of your lovely beauty May sustain him in his duty.

Some one's boy that was a baby Soon shall wear it, and it may be He will write and tell his mother Of the kindness of another, And her spirit shall caress you, And her prayers at night shall bless you. You may never know its story, Cannot know the grief or glory That are destined now and hover Over him your wool shall cover, Nor what spirit shall invade it Once your gentle hands have made it.

Little woman, hourly sitting, Something for a soldier knitting, 'Tis no common garb you're making, These, no common pains you're taking. Something lovely, holy, lingers O'er the needles in your fingers And with every stitch you're weaving Something of yourself you're leaving. From your gentle hands and tender There may come a nation's splendor, And from this, your simple duty, Life may win a fairer beauty.

A Good Soldier

He writes to us most every day, and how his letters thrill us! I can't describe the joys with which his quaint expressions fill us. He says the military life is not of his selection, He's only soldiering to-day to give the Flag protection. But since he's in the army now and doing duties humble, He'll do what all good soldiers must, and he will never grumble.

He's not so keen for standing guard, a lonely vigil keeping, "But when I must," he writes to us, "they'll never find me sleeping! I hear a lot of boys complain about the tasks they set us And there's no doubt that mother's meals can beat the ones they get us, But since I'm here to do my bit, close to the job I'm sticking; I'll take whatever comes my way and waste no word in kicking.

"I'd like to be a captain, dad, a major or a colonel, I'd like to get my picture in some illustrated journal; I don't exactly fancy jobs that now and then come my way, Like picking bits of rubbish up that desecrate the highway. But still I'll do those menial tasks as cheerfully as could one, For while I am a private here I'm going to be a good one.

"A soldier's life is not the way I'd choose to make my living, But now I'm in the ranks to serve, my best to it I'm giving. Oh, I could name a dozen jobs that I'd consider finer, But since I've got this one to do I'll never be a whiner. I'm just a private in the ranks, but take it from my letter, They'll never fire your son for one who'll do his duty better."

His Santa Claus

He will not come to him this year with all his old-time joy, An imitation Santa Claus must serve his little boy; Last year he heard the reindeers paw the roof above his head, And as he dreamed the kindly saint tip-toed about his bed, But Christmas Eve he will not come by any happy chance; This year his kindly Santa Claus must guard a trench in France.

His mother bravely tries to smile; last Christmas Eve was gay; Last Christmas morn his daddy rose at dawn with him to play; This year he'll hang his stocking by the chimney, but the hands That filled it with the joys he craved now serve in foreign lands. He is too young to understand his mother's troubled glance, But he that was his Santa Claus is in a trench in France.

Somewhere in France this Christmas Eve a soldier brave will be, And all that night in fancy he will trim a Christmas tree; And all that night he'll live again the joys that once he had When he was good St. Nicholas unto a certain lad. And he will wonder if his boy, by any sad mischance, Will find his stocking empty just because he serves in France.

Show the Flag

Show the flag and let it wave As a symbol of the brave; Let it float upon the breeze As a sign for each who sees That beneath it, where it rides, Loyalty to-day abides.

Show the flag and signify That it wasn't born to die; Let its colors speak for you That you still are standing true, True in sight of God and man To the work that flag began.

Show the flag that all may see That you serve humanity. Let it whisper to the breeze That comes singing through the trees That whatever storms descend You'll be faithful to the end.

Show the flag and let it fly, Cheering every passer-by--Men that may have stepped aside, May have lost their old-time pride, May behold it there, and then Consecrate themselves again.

Show the flag! The day is gone When men blindly hurry on Serving only gods of gold; Now the spirit that was cold Warms again to courage fine. Show the flag and fall in line!

The Honor Roll

The boys upon the honor roll, God bless them all, I pray! God watch them when they sleep at night, and guard them through the day. We've stamped their names upon our walls, the list in glory grows, Our brave boys and our splendid boys who stand to meet our foes.

Oh, here are sons of mothers fair and fathers fine and true, The little ones of yesterday, the children that we knew; We thought of them as youngsters gay, still laughing at their games, And then we found the honor roll emblazoned with their names.

We missed their laughter and their cheer; it seems but yesterday We had them here to walk with us, and now they've marched away. And here where once their smiles were seen we keep a printed scroll; The absent boy we long to see is on the honor roll.

So quickly did the summons come we scarcely marked the change, One day life marched its normal pace, the next all things seemed strange, And when we questioned where they were, the sturdiest of us all, We saw the silent honor roll on each familiar wall.

The laughter that we knew has gone; the merry voice of youth No longer rings where graybeards sit, discussing sombre truth. No longer jests are flung about to rouse our weary souls, For they who meant so much to us are on our honor rolls.

The Princess Pats

A touch of the plain and the prairie, A bit of the Motherland, too; A strain of the fur-trapper wary, A blend of the old and the new; A bit of the pioneer splendor That opened the wilderness' flats, A touch of the home-lover, tender, You'll find in the boys they call Pats.

The glory and grace of the maple, The strength that is born of the wheat, The pride of a stock that is staple, The bronze of a midsummer heat; A blending of wisdom and daring, The best of a new land, and that's The regiment gallantly bearing The neat little title of Pats.

A bit of the man who has neighbored With mountains and forests and streams, A touch of the man who has labored To model and fashion his dreams; The strength of an age of clean living, Of right-minded fatherly chats, The best that a land could be giving Is there in the breasts of the Pats.

July the Fourth, 1917

Time was the cry went round the world: America for freedom speaks, A new flag is to-day unfurled, An eagle on the mountain shrieks, A king is failing on his throne, A race of men defies his power! And no one could have guessed or known The burden of that splendid hour.

A bell rang out that summer day And men and women stood and heard; That tongue of brass had more to say Than could be spoken by a word. It spoke the thoughts of honest men, It whispered Destiny's intents And rang a warning loudly then To Kings of all the continents.

The old bell in its holy loft Where pigeons nest, has ceased to swing And yet through many a day and oft A weary people hear it sing. That hour long years ago, when first America for freedom fought, The bonds of slavery were burst: That hour began the reign of thought.

Here comes another summer day: America is on the sea, America has dared to say That other people shall be free. No selfish stain her banner mars, Her flag, for truth and right, unfurled, With every stripe and all its stars Still speaks its message to the world

Out where the soldiers fight for men, Out where, for others, heroes die, Out where they storm the Tyrant's den, The Starry Banner lights the sky. And once again the cry goes out That brings the flush of hope to cheeks Grown pale by bitter war and doubt: "America for Freedom speaks."

Spring in the Trenches

It's coming time for planting in that little patch of ground, Where the lad and I made merry as he followed me around; The sun is getting higher, and the skies above are blue, And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the war were through.

But it's tramp, tramp, tramp, And it's never look behind, And when you see a stranger's kids, Pretend that you are blind.

The spring is coming back again, the birds begin to mate; The skies are full of kindness, but the world is full of hate. And it's I that should be bending now in peace above the soil, With laughing eyes and little hands about to bless the toil.

But it's fight, fight, fight, And it's charge at double-quick; A soldier thinking thoughts of home Is one more soldier sick.

Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and saw the roses bud; This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of it is blood. Last year the mother in the door was glad as she could be; To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is hurting me.

But it's shoot, shoot, shoot, And when the bullets hiss, Don't let the tears fill up your eyes, For weeping soldiers miss.

Oh, who will tend the roses now and who will sow the seeds? And who will do the heavy work the little garden needs? And who will tell the lad of mine the things he wants to know, And take his hand and lead him round the paths we used to go?

For it's charge, charge, charge, And it's face the foe once more; Forget the things you love the most And keep your mind on war.

Bigger Than His Dad

He has heard his country calling, and has fallen into line, And he's doing something bigger than his daddy ever did; He has caught a greater vision than the finest one of mine, And I know to-day I'm prouder of than sorry for the kid.

His speech is soft and vibrant with the messages of truth, And he says some things of duty that I cannot understand; It may be that I'm selfish, but this ending of his youth Is not the dream I cherished and it's not the thing I planned.

I only know he's bigger in his uniform to-day Than I, who stand and watch him as he drills, have ever been; That he sees a greater vision of life's purpose far away, And a finer goal to die for than my eyes have ever seen.

I wish I felt as he does, wish I had his sense of right; With the vision he possesses I should be supremely glad; But I sometimes start to choking when I think of him at night-- The boy that has grown bigger, yes, and better than his dad.

The Boy's Adventure

"Dear Father," he wrote me from Somewhere in France, Where he's waiting with Pershing to lead the advance, "There's little the censor permits me to tell Save the fact that I'm here and am happy and well. The French people cheered as we marched from our ship At the close of a really remarkable trip; They danced and they screamed and they shouted and ran, And I blush as I write. I was kissed by a man!

"I've seen a great deal since I bade you good-bye, I have witnessed a battle far up in the sky; I have heard the dull roar of a long line of guns, And seen the destruction that's worked by the Huns; Some scenes I'll remember, and some I'll forget, But the welcome he gave me! I'm feeling it yet. Oh, try to imagine your boy if you can, As he looked and he felt, being kissed by a man!

"'Ah, Meestaire!' he cried in a voice that was shrill, And his queer little eyes with delight seemed to fill, And before I was wise to the custom, or knew Just what he was up to, about me he threw His arms, and he hugged me, and then with a squeak, He planted a chaste little kiss on each cheek. He was stocky and strong and his whiskers were tan. Now please keep it dark. I've been kissed by a man."

Out of It All

Out of it all shall come splendor and gladness; Out of the madness and out of the sadness, Clearer and finer the world shall arise. Why then keep sorrow and doubt in your eyes?

Joy shall be ours when the warfare is over; Children shall gleefully romp in the clover; Here with our heroes at home and at rest, We shall rejoice with the world at its best.

Not in vain, not in vain, is our bright banner flying; Not for naught are the sons of our fond mothers dying; The gloom and despair are not ever to last; The world shall be better when they shall have passed.

So mourn not his absence, but smile and be brave; You shall have him again from the brink of the grave In a wonderful world 'neath a wonderful sun; He shall come to your arms with his victory won.

The Christmas Box

Oh, we have shipped his Christmas box with ribbons red 'tis tied, And he shall find the things he likes from them he loves inside, But he must miss the kisses true and all the laughter gay And he must miss the smiles of home upon his Christmas Day.

He'll spend his Christmas 'neath the Flag; he'll miss each merry face, Old Glory smiling down on him must take his mother's place, Yet in the Christmas box we've sent, in fancy he will find The laughter and the tears of joy that he has left behind.

His mother's tenderness is there, his father's kindly way, And all that went last year to make his merry Christmas Day; He'll see once more his sister's smile, he'll hear the baby shout, And as he opens every gift we'll gather round about.

He cannot come to share with us the joys of Christmas Day; The Flag has called to him, and he is serving far away. Undaunted, unafraid and fine he stands to duty grim, And so this Christmas we have tried to ship ourselves to him.

A Plea

God grant me these: the strength to do Some needed service here; The wisdom to be brave and true; The gift of vision clear, That in each task that comes to me Some purpose I may plainly see.

God teach me to believe that I Am stationed at a post, Although the humblest 'neath the sky, Where I am needed most, And that, at last, if I do well, My humble services will tell.

God grant me faith to stand on guard, Uncheered, unspoke, alone, And see behind such duty hard My service to the throne. Whate'er my task, be this my creed: I am on earth to fill a need.

Your Country Needs You

The country needs a man like you, It has a task for you to do. It has a job for you to face. Somewhere for you it has a place. Not all the slackers dodge the work Of service where the cannon lurk, Not all the slackers on life's stage Are boys of military age. The old, the youthful and unfit Must also do their little bit.

The country needs a man like you, 'Twill suffer if you prove untrue. What though you cannot bear a gun? That isn't all that's to be done. There are a thousand other ways To serve your country through the days Of trial and the nights of storm. You need not wear a uniform Or with the men in council sit To serve the Flag and do your bit.

Somewhere for you there is a place, Somewhere you have a task to face. There's none so helpless or so frail That cannot, when our foes assail, In some way help our common cause And be deserving of applause. Behind the Flag we all must be, Each at his post, awake to see That in so far as he has striven, His best was to his country given.

You can be patient, brave and strong, And not complain when plans go wrong; You can be cheerful at your toil, Or till, perhaps, some patch of soil; You can encourage others who Have heavier, greater tasks to do; You can be loyal, not in creed Alone, but in each thought and deed; You can make sacrifices, too. The country needs a man like you,

A Creed

To keep in mind from day to day That I'm a soldier in the fray; That I must serve, from sun to sun, As well as he who bears a gun The flag that flies above us all, And answer well my Country's call.

I must not for one hour forget Unto the Stars and Stripes my debt. 'Twas spotless on' my day of birth, And when at last I quit this earth Old Glory still must spotless be For all who follow after me.

At some post where my work will fit I must with courage do my bit; Some portion of myself I'd give That freedom and the Flag may live. And in some way I want to feel That I am doing service real.

I must in all I say and do Respect the red, the white and blue', Nor dim with petty deeds of shame The splendor of Old Glory's fame; I must not let my standards drag, For my disgrace would stain the Flag.

The Struggle

Life is a struggle for peace, A longing for rest, A hope for the battles to cease, A dream for the best; And he is not living who stays Contented with things, Unconcerned with the work of the days And all that it brings.

He is dead who sees nothing to change, No wrong to make right; Who travels no new way or strange In search of the light; Who never sets out for a goal That he sees from afar But contents his indifferent soul With things as they are.